Pinball Wizard
by gwenweybourne
Summary: Fluffy one-shot. John lets his inner rockstar out to play while Sherlock is out. But when the detective walks in on him, John finds himself teaching Sherlock a few things about rock 'n' roll.


**A/N: I'll leave the intricate casefic to Moffat and Gatiss and more talented fanfic scribes. I have to admit I am in love with the "in-between" times. What Sherlock and John get up to between cases. This bit of fluff was inspired by a certain song that came up on my iPod not too long ago and I immediately envisioned John hopping around the flat and having a private moment of fun when he thinks he's not being watched. But of course, he always is being watched …**

**Disclaimer: Characters are no mine. Pure fiction. And fond regards to The Who and their tremendous songs.**

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><p>It felt like he was back in his schooldays again. Laying about, listening to music on headphones so as not to disturb Mum with "that bloody racket." Sherlock was out, but Mrs. Hudson was in, so John, considerate as always, plugged in rather than bother her. God knows, Mrs. Hudson had the patience of Job when it came to putting up with Sherlock's eccentricities (and cavalier treatment of the appliances she provided in the flat — the fridge was home to more non-food items than not), but John didn't want to test her with something that could be remedied with basic human courtesy.<p>

John liked all sorts of music and he had a deep appreciation for Sherlock's skilled violin-playing, but today he was in the mood for some rock 'n' roll. Like most people his age, it was what he'd grown up on and since Sherlock disdained all music except classical (though he'd exhibited a certain scientific fascination with the workings of Inuit throat-singing), John played his music privately, usually in his room so Sherlock wouldn't tease him for mouthing along with the words or the fact that John still owned CDs (he had a few cassettes, too, but nowhere to play them. He still regretted selling his records in a tag sale years ago.). It reminded him of his youth, and often of some of the better memories of his time during in Afghanistan. Drinking the odd beer and head-banging with some of his mates as a way to relieve tension. Or sometimes the driving rhythm of the music served to bolster their flagging spirits before a mission. All in all, it made him feel good.

But today he was in the living room wearing a pair of comfortable earmuff-style headphones — a luxurious purchase — plugged into the portable stereo he usually kept in his room. The earbud style made his ears sore and the cord was always too short. In his teenaged years he'd had a similar, cheaper pair, with a nice, long cord so he could move around in his bedroom and air-guitar. Until Mum got tired of the thumping and would send Harry upstairs to tell him to knock it off.

John was in the mood for something loud and swaggering. He was in the mood to listen to The Who. The opening riffs of "Pinball Wizard" filled his ears and John felt the familiar swell of feeling that started in deep in his belly. He loved this song. Had loved it for as long as he could remember. The blazing anthem about Tommy, the deaf, dumb, and blind boy who was a pinball prodigy. Admittedly, the story was more than a bit unbelievable, but the narrative wasn't the point. It was about the music. The sound. And John had liked the film version in all its disturbing glory. Ann-Margret rolling around in several gallons of baked beans. Roger Daltrey falling through a glass window and plunging into the ocean. Tina Turner as the Acid Queen. Keith Moon as creepy Uncle Ernie, always "fiddling about." Poor Moonie; dead before his time. John had managed to scrape up enough dosh to see The Who play live once during one of their many "we're disbanding, no we really mean it this time" tours, but Moonie had asphyxiated on his own vomit when John was still a child and it just wasn't quite the same without the maniac behind the kit.

During these ruminations, John had unconsciously gotten off the sofa and was standing, his arms rising to rapidly mimic the movement of the chords and then, here it came, his favourite part: the ringing power chord from Pete Townshend and John swung his arm up and around, imitating the guitarist's famous "windmill" motion. God, it felt so good!

The vocals kicked in and John shifted from Townshend to Daltrey, eyes closed as he sang along to the words. _Ever since I was a young boy, I played the silver ball. From Soho down to Brighton, I musta played them all …_

John was strutting and dancing, completely unaware of his surroundings. Of course he'd wanted to be a rockstar when he was younger. Who didn't? But he'd realized quickly that he lacked any kind of musical talent. Not to mention that his looks didn't quite fit the bill. Girls thought he was cute and nice, but he'd wanted them to think he was fit and sexy. The lads thought he was a solid bloke, a personable sort. Good ol' dependable Johnny. But they didn't idolize him the way they did the tall, lanky, dangerous-looking guys in his neighbourhood. The ones who grew their hair long and started terrible bands with terrible names and had the girls fall all over them.

John continued being a good student and a serviceable rugby player. He went to the odd concert and clapped and hollered. He went to uni. He got drunk and danced embarrassingly badly at nightclubs. He went to medical school. He joined the army. He went to war. His dreams of rockstardom were wholly confined to the privacy of his room and his music collection.

The song was blazing away and John was Daltrey, Townshend, Moon, and Entwistle all at once. It was almost at the climax when suddenly the sound cut out and started playing through the stereo instead of the headphones.

John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock, still clad in his coat and scarf, standing before him, holding the headphone plug in his hand.

"John, what on earth are you doing? Are you all right? You looked like you were being electrocuted." Sherlock examined the cord, frowning. "I hope you bought these at a reputable establishment and not off some tatty old blanket in Brick Lane."

John's face, which was already a little pink from exertion, blazed bright red with embarrassment. He buried his face in his hands. "Sherlock," he moaned, the word muffled by his palms. "God. I'm fine. I was just …"

"Dancing, by the looks of it. If you can call that dancing." Sherlock paused and shuddered. "And if you call that music." He leaned down and switched off the stereo, not commenting on the fact that it was now in the living room instead of John's room. Naturally, he had catalogued everything John kept in his room. "What on earth was that noise?"

John let his arms drop, his embarrassment being somewhat replaced by bewilderment. "You're having me on."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You don't know what that music was." John slipped the headphones off, aghast at what he was hearing.

"I thought I told you that any music composed after the death of Rachmaninoff was not worth storing in my hard drive."

"Sherlock!" John threw his arms up in the air. "It's _The Who_! How can you not know that?"

"Who?"

"The Who!"

"Who?" Sherlock's eyes were alight with mischief.

John paused and pointed a finger at him. "Stop that. And it's insult to injury that you know Abbott and Costello and you don't know The Who. That's disgraceful."

"Sorry, John." Sherlock looked vaguely annoyed and not the least bit sorry. "You're not going to get on me about this like you did about the solar system, are you?"

"It's your duty as an Englishman to know The Who. Their greatest hits album practically comes issued with every British birth certificate."

"So, you're going to get on me about this like you did about the solar system. Grand. And please, John, you know how hyperbole bores me." Sherlock drifted over to the desk to thumb through some papers. "And besides, aren't they terribly old, that band?"

"Aha, so you do know them. And what do you mean, _old? _Says the man hasn't voluntarily listened to anything recorded after Churchill's time."

"They sold their so-called 'art' as theme songs for those dreadful American police procedurals on the telly. That's how I remember them. Call it a small virus in the hard drive," Sherlock murmured disdainfully, picking up a teacup hidden under a stack of papers and raising at eyebrow at what was in it. John was sure he didn't want to know. "There's a difference between classic and _dated_, John. If you insist on listening to modern music, you might as well do it correctly. You're not _that_ old, after all."

John raised his arms in surrender. "Forget it. Just forget I said anything. I'll take my 'electrocution' dance moves upstairs."

Sherlock raised his head as he shrugged out of his coat and loosened his scarf. "No, don't. They amuse me."

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not exist for your amusement, Sherlock."

"What was that thing you were doing with your arm?"

"What thing?"

"That spinny thing. Throwing it about like you were going to rachet it out of the socket."

John groaned softly. "Sherlock … exactly how long were you watching me before pulling the plug?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Around the time it was proclaimed that the Pinball Wizard has '_such_ a supple wrist.'"

"Why didn't you alert me to your presence sooner?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Come on, John. You know why. You looked like an idiot. And you're a terrible singer. And besides, I wanted to hear how the story turned out. Ridiculous, by the way. How on earth could a deaf, dumb, and blind boy skilfully play pinball using only his sense of smell?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. "What, do pinball machines smell like anything? Or did they make him a special machine that emitted certain odours when the ball makes contact with the flipper? A bad odour when he failed to achieve a high score?"

"You've never played pinball, have you?"

Sherlock threw John a look that said, _you can't be seriously asking me that_.

"Right," said John. "The story isn't the point, Sherlock. It's the music. It's how it makes you feel. Surely you can identify with that."

"Of course. How does that racket make you feel, John?"

"Powerful. Excited. Hence the arm thing."

"Yes, explain the arm thing."

John paused for a moment, unable to believe he was about to try to explain what he was about to explain. He sighed. "All right, so Pete Townshend, the lead guitarist, he had a signature move. When he was going to play a single, hard, chord, he'd pull his arm up whip it back down in a circle as he strummed." John stood demonstrated. "They call it 'The Windmill.' It's amazing to watch him do it. It's visually powerful."

Sherlock nodded. "But why do you do it? You're strumming thin air."

John shrugged. "It feels good? It's pretend, but it feels good."

"I don't understand."

John switched the stereo back on and cued up the song again. Sherlock waited somewhat patiently and when the chords sounded, John whipped his arm around in time with them. He grinned at Sherlock, unable to believe he was doing it. "See? It's fun. Try it."

"I will not!"

"Come on, try it. It's a good stretch, at least."

"It's stupid, John."

"Of course it is. That's hardly the point. Are you scared to look foolish in front of me?"

"Don't try to use reverse psychology on me, John. You're not _that_ kind of doctor."

John cued up the song again. "Come on. Do it with me. I won't let you live out your life without rocking out to The Who at least once."

"All right," Sherlock grumbled.

John took a few steps back so he wouldn't get hit in the face by Sherlock's long arm. He was already strumming madly along with the acoustic bits. "All right, ready? … now!"

They whipped their arms in unison in time with the chord.

"Again!" John exclaimed, and they did it again before the lyrics kicked in.

Sherlock mouth quirked ever so slightly.

John chuckled. "You have to admit it was a tiny bit fun."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise that John knew to mean that he was agreeing, but would not lower himself to actually say it aloud. But then he made a sour face. "But god, John, why are the lyrics so _insipid?_ Why does music have lyrics at all? It's entirely unnecessary."

"All right, let's find you another song," said John, picking up the CD case and scanning it. "Ah, maybe you'll like this better."

"Do you really think you are going to convert me into appreciating this noise?"

"Shut up and listen …" John cued up another song and let out a satisfied growl as the driving chords rang out and Moonie hit the drums with absolute precision. Sherlock cocked his head in curiosity, fascinated by the effect the music was having on the doctor. Normally so mild-mannered and collected, it was interesting to see this rather primal response.

"You like this because it makes you feel young again, John."

"Of course. Doesn't music do that for you?"

"I didn't like being young. You're small, no one listens to you, and you're told what to do and where to be all the time. Why would anyone be nostalgic for what was essentially indentured servitude?"

"It's not news that we had very different upbringings, Sherlock. Now shhh, and listen."

"Very well," Sherlock groused.

_I know you've deceived me, now here's a surprise. I know that you have 'cos there's magic in my eyes. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles. Oh yeah._

Sherlock snorted. "_Magic_. Rubbish."

"Don't be so literal. If ever there was a rock song written about you, this would be it, Sherlock. Besides, what you do is rather magical to us dull, normal people."

Sherlock waved an elegant hand dismissively, but his mouth quirked again. He could never resist a compliment from John regarding his deductive abilities.

_If you think that I don't know about the little tricks you've played. And never see you when deliberately you put things in my way. Well, here's a poke at you, you're gonna choke on it too, you're gonna lose that smile, Because all the while, I can see for miles and miles, I can see for miles and miles …_

John watched Sherlock, who was listening intently. His head was nodding with the beat and one foot was tapping along with the drums.

"All right then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't dislike it, John."

"I'll take that as high praise."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Does this song have a 'windmill' in it?"

John chuckled. "You want to do another windmill?"

"The stretch felt good."

"Not in this song. But I have what you need. Time for some 'Baba O'Riley.'"

"_Baba?_"

"Shut up and listen …"

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><p>Amazingly, John got Sherlock to sit through almost the entirety of The Who's Greatest Hits. With the exception of "Happy Jack," ("Stupid.") and "Love Reign O'er Me" ("Caterwauling, John. Make it stop.") They did more windmills and John was practising Pete Townshend's trademark leaps when they were interrupted by a shrill announcement: "Boys! <em>Boys!<em> No wonder you haven't heard me calling!"

John and Sherlock turned to see Mrs. Hudson glaring at them. Guilty, John reached out and flicked off the stereo.

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands anxiously. "Does it have to be so very loud? How can you hear yourselves think? And the thumping on the floors! My teacups are rattling like coins in a purse!"

"Mrs. Hudson, one does not need to be able to hear in order to think —" Sherlock began, but was cut off when John raised a hand and gave him a stern look.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It won't happen again."

"I really hate to be a bother, but it's just too much …"

"Say no more," John said contritely.

"Mrs. Hudson? Have you ever tried doing a 'windmill'?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"A what?" Mrs. Hudson said, confused.

"Sherlock …" John warned.

"It's really quite marvellous for the deltoid and oblique muscles. John, play the song …"

"Well, I have been a little stiff these past few days. It's the damp. Terrible for my hip as well."

John groaned softly.

"Are you all right, dear?"

"Fine, Mrs. Hudson, just fine."

"Pay no attention to him," said Sherlock dismissively, walking over to the stereo. "Now you need to put your arm up above your head …"

End


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